Sing the Four Quarters

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"Did you hear that?"

Theron swiveled to face the bard. On the road since dawn, they'd just broke out from under the cover of the trees and he'd been squinting up the length of the valley at the brooding bulk of Ohrid's keep backlit by the morning sun. "Hear what?" he asked. "I didn't hear anything."

"Stasya. She's Singing the kigh."

"Is she all right?"

A sudden gust of wind rocked Tadeus back in his saddle. "As near as I can tell." He raised a hand, fingers stroking information from the air. "But someone else is dead."

"Who?" Theron demanded. If Annice was at the keep and Stasya was Singing and someone was dead…

"A man." Tadeus Sang a short series of notes, his hair whipping around his head even while the pennants on the lances hung limp. After a moment, he slammed his fist down onto the saddle horn. His horse sidestepped nervously. The king reached over, grabbed the reins, and pulled it up short. "Stasya's gone again! And the kigh won't go back into the keep."

"Annice?"

"Probably."

Theron nodded grimly. "That's it. Captain!"

"Sire?"

"Form up the guard to advance on the keep."

"Sire!"

"Tadeus, I want everyone to hear this."

"Yes, Majesty."

Wheeling his horse around in a tight circle, Theron's gaze swept over the company stretched back along the narrow track, somehow seeming to include even those he couldn't see. "There's trouble up ahead," he said as the bard's quiet Song lifted his voice, carrying it over the noise of the guard leaving their positions and moving to the fore. The faces of the four nobles lit up, but then, they'd been chosen because they thrived on trouble. "Servers and pack animals will follow as they can." The noncombatants knew who they were. "The rest of us are needed at the keep." When he unhooked the crowned helm from behind his saddle and slipped it on, a murmur of excitement rose from the ranks. Even the horses seemed to catch it.

"You forget how incredibly dull State Visits are," he'd told the Bardic Captain the day the company had left Elbasan. "Even truncated ones. We're talking days of tedious travel interspersed with tasteless banquets and endless posturing. By the time we reach Orchid, if I'm any judge, this lot will consider taking on the entire Cemandian army a welcome relief."

At the time, the words had been for the most part the only sort of bravado kings were permitted. Now, Theron hoped they held an element of truth.

"What do you think you're doing?" he barked a moment later as Tadeus brought his horse into line.

Ebony brows flicked above the tolled leather mask the bard wore over his eyes. "Preparing to gallop to the rescue, Majesty."

"You're blind!"

Tadeus flashed him a brilliant smile completely free of compromise. "The horse isn't."

"Vencel!" Braid flying, the boy raced across the field, leaping the rows of young corn. "Vencel! The king is coming! He has soldiers and he's galloping!"

"Soldiers?" Vencel grabbed his little brother and gave him a shake. "What are you talking about?"

Too familiar with this form of interrogation to be bothered by it, the boy grinned and explained. "They're in two lines and they're on horses and they're galloping and they have flags and helms and everything just like in the stories."

"How far from the forest?"

"Not far. I was down by the creek with Miki and…"

"Never mind that. Where's Tas?"

The child shrugged. "Sheep pen, I guess."

"Find her. Tell her what you told me, then tell her I said to get the others and to go right to the keep."

"I want to watch the King!"

"Do it!"

Ducking his brother's fist, the boy bounded away, throwing a jaunty, "And what did your last slave die of?" back over his shoulder.

"Come to the keep in ones and twos," Lukas had told them. "You'll have lots of time."

Something had gone wrong. Vencel didn't know what, but he did know they no longer had the time they'd been promised. If he ever wanted to be more than what he was at this moment, he had to change the rules. Dropping his hoe, he ran for the village. At least two people were in the forest and wouldn't be able to beat a galloping horse back to the keep. There'd be less than the full twenty archers on the walls but still enough to give the King of Shkoder a welcome he wouldn't forget.

The stablemaster stood, wiping her fingers on her breeches as she turned away from Lukas' corpse. "He's dead," she said flatly.

As though they were only waiting for that confirmation, a hundred questions rose to beat at the air.

"Stasya didn't take me nowhere!" Gerek's piping voice pierced through the chaos in the court, offering the only answer. "Lukas and Aunty Olina put her in a hole, so I went to get Papa."

"But how did you know he was alive, little one?" Jany demanded, scrubbing at the tear streaks on his face with the hem of her shift. Her own eyes continued to well and spill, but the action seemed to calm her.

Gerek shoved her hand away. "Stasya told me."

Heads swiveled to stare at the two bards huddled in the open doorway, holding each other and paying little attention to the world outside their embrace. Several hands rose to flick out the sign against the kigh, but only a couple completed the motion. Most stopped at the point where they realized their fingers were folded in the same position as the stiffening fingers of Lukas a'Tynek.

"Papa!" Tearing himself out of his nurse's grip, Gerek raced to the base of the tower and threw himself into his father's arms.

Pjerin winced at the impact but gathered the small body up against his right side and rested his head on the dark cap of hair, breathing in the clean child scent. He had a thousand things he wanted to say, from "Don't ever do that again!" to "Thank every god in the Circle you're alive!", but none of them meant as much as just absorbing the presence of his son and he knew he'd only be allowed an instant of it.

"Your Grace…"

"They sent a messenger! He said you were dead!"

"There was a Death Judgment…"

"… guilty, Your Grace, we heard you under Command!"

"You were dead…"

"… alive…"

"Enough!" One by one the voices stilled. Pjerin shifted Gerek's weight on his hip. "The Cemandians have a way to subvert Bardic Command. Olina used it to remove me and gain control of the pass."

"But you're her blood," someone protested.

Pjerin's eyes grew darker. "So is my son. That didn't seem to matter. She made Lukas a'Tynek her tool, although how much she told him…" His glance flicked down to the corpse and up again. "… we'll never know. Right now, we've…"

A dozen villagers—most showing some indication of tasks hurriedly left—pounded through the gate, into the court, and rocked to a stop. Pjerin a'Stasiek was alive! The due was alive! They jostled about for a moment as those in the rear pushed forward, then a heavyset man with a full, curling beard broke into the clear and threw himself down beside Lukas' body.

A heartbeat later, he sat back on his heels and looked up at Pjerin, eyes wide. "You're alive and my brother is dead. How did this happen?" One hand made the sign against the kigh, the other hovered over the hilt of the skinning knife he had shoved through the wrapped ties of his bloodstained, bullhide apron.

Gaze locked on Nikulas a'Tynek, Pjerin set Gerek on the ground and turned him to face across the court. "Go to Annice," he said shortly.

"But…"

"Just go."

Gerek sighed deeply but trotted across to where the two bards still stood in the open doorway.

"Gerek, are you all right?" one of the new arrivals called as Annice drew the child in against her legs.

"'Course I am." The weary indignation in his voice clearly added, how many times do I have to tell you. "I just went to find Papa."

"We thought the bard took you…"

"And murdered you!"

"My brother is dead and a dead man is alive!" Nikulas roared, rising to his feet. "Tell me what is going on!"

Tersely, Pjerin explained again how Olina had made him appear an oathbreaker in order to gain control of the pass. How she'd used Lukas and, finally, how Lukas had died.

"He fell?" Nikulas snorted. "And am I to believe you didn't push him?"

"Shame, Nikulas! Shame!"

"… saw His Grace fight to save your brother with every right to let him fall!"

"Lukas would have dropped the boy…"

"… accident…"

"… shame!"

Breathing heavily, Nikulas backed away a step. With no one supporting his accusation, not even those members of the family scattered amid the group still standing just inside the gate, the last thing he wanted was a one on one confrontation with the due. "Still more questions than answers," he muttered.

"I have a question!" Vencel pushed his way forward. "Now that you've returned, Your Grace, where do you stand? Are we in Ohrid to continue as forgotten vassals of the King of Shkoder, valued only for our willingness to stupidly throw our live between him and conquest? Or will you lead us to victory?"

"Articulate farmers in these parts," Stasya murmured for Annice's hearing alone.

Annice nodded. "He's going to lose his tongue if Pjerin loses his temper."

"Lead you to what victory?" Pjerin demanded.

"In throwing off the yoke of Shkoder!"

"And replacing it with the yoke of Cemandia?" His voice had taken on a dangerous edge.

Vencel ignored it. "We were promised change!" he declared, punching the air. "A chance to be more!"

Several people muttered in agreement and a wave of movement traced a restless shift in position.

"You believed those promises?" The edge in Pjerin's voice had become a sneer.

"Cemandia gave us trade!"

"It was what you wanted, Your Grace."

"It was what Olina wanted," Pjerin bellowed, his grip on his temper slipping. "Those were not my words! The Cemandians will grind you under their boot heels! Take away your freedoms!"

"We want our chance!" Vencel yelled.

The court erupted in a cacophony of shouting.

"Let it be." Stasya grabbed Gerek with one hand and Annice with the other. "Olina has played these people against themselves, fears against desires for nearly two quarters. Their due was dead. Now he's alive. Cemandia's bad. Cemandia's good. Cemandia's bad again. No one knows what or who to believe. Can't you feel it? This storm has to break."

"Someone's going to get hurt, Stas."

Still holding Gerek, Stasya let Annice go and gestured at the seething mass. It was no longer possible to determine who had been originally at the keep and who had come up from the village. "How," she asked, "do you suggest we stop it?"

"Lukas a'Tynek was a superstitious fool!" Pjerin's voice rose above the din. "Olina used him! She used you!"

"Kigh lover!"

The first blow occurred simultaneously in a number of places.

Gerek clutched at Annice's shift. "Is my papa gong to get hurt?"

"I don't think so, sweetheart." Annice added her grip to Stasya's. The last thing they wanted was for Gerek to plunge into the fray. "No one's hitting him. He's trying to stop the fighting."

"Why doesn't he just tell them to stop?"

"Nobody's listening."

It was one thing to agree to capture a foreign king, convinced he was the overlord who kept Ohrid isolated and poor, but it was another thing entirely to physically strike the hereditary due—the man who was Ohrid. The blows Pjerin took were accidental as he waded into the battle pulling men and women apart.

A knife flashed in an upraised fist. Pjerin smashed his forearm into the snarling face below it. The knife went flying, clattered against the cobblestones, and was lost amidst the dance of scuffling feet.

Flesh pounded against flesh. Urmi, her nose streaming blood, kicked the legs out from under a cursing villager and followed him to the ground. A pair of cousins rolled and spat obscenities as they struggled for a hold. Vencel sucked air past a split lip as an elbow caught him in the stomach, but he recovered in time to block the next blow and return a quick flurry of his own. Someone screamed as teeth clamped down on a fold of skin. Pressed against the base of the tower near his brother's body, Nikulas, skinning knife in his hand, watched and waited for a clear shot at the Due of Ohrid's back.

His brother was dead. The due was alive. That wasn't the way it was supposed to be. Lukas'd had plans. Big plans. Now he was dead.

Pjerin grunted as a flailing arm slammed into his wounded shoulder. He staggered back, yanked two villagers off the keep's scullion, helped the boy to his feet, and ducked a swinging fist.

Nikulas crept out from the wall. Not even the demon kigh would be able to follow the strike in this confusion. He fixed his eyes on the dirt-streaked skin just below the tangled mass of the due's hair, where the heavy muscle bulk over the ribs gave way to softer tissue. Up and under. Then away. No one would ever know. His brother would be avenged.

Only Annice and Stasya saw the first pair of guards gallop into the keep. The second and third were harder to ignore. By the time the fourth and fifth were taking their positions, the fighting had begun to stop as people were pushed into an increasingly smaller area in the center of the court.

Recognizing his last and best chance, Nikulas lunged forward. A lance cracked down on his wrist. Crying out, he dropped the knife and cradled the swelling arm against his belly. When he tried to hide himself, he found the lance blocking his way and a smiling guard shaking her head. She might not know exactly what was going on, but the laws were clear concerning back-stabbing. Nikulas could only stand and watch as horses plunged past struggling combatants and the people of Ohrid staggered to their feet to face this new threat together.

By the time the king, his standard bearer, Tadeus, and the four nobles rode into the court, the guards were ranged around the perimeter in what became a closed circle the moment the last rider cleared the gate. Pjerin and his people stood, differences forgotten, shoulder to shoulder, wiping away blood and glaring about them at this show of force.

"Nees! I can't see!" Gerek bounced up and down on the doorstep and scowled at the pair of dusty haunches that blocked his view.

Trying very hard not to break into hysterical giggles, Annice took his hand and pushed between the two horses. "Excuse me, Corporal Agniya." She tapped the guard lightly just above her greave. "If you wouldn't mind shuffling your mount to the left just a bit."

Corporal Agniya looked down and her jaw dropped. "You're… I mean, you…" The orders she'd been given didn't begin to cover this. Wondering just what in the Circle was going on, she did the only thing she could. She moved her horse.

"Pjerin a'Stasiek, Due of Ohrid." The sunlight blazed on each point of the crown encircling Theron's helm and threw the stern lines of his face into burnished relief. "I am pleased to see you got safely home." Although he spoke the local dialect with a strong accent, astonishment that he spoke it at all showed on most faces in the court, including Pjerin's.

As the tall man, bare torso streaked with blood, stepped forward to bow before the king, Tadeus translated Theron's words into Shkoden for the benefit of the guard and nobles. Several of the guard broke discipline enough to exchange astonished glances. The last they'd heard, Pjerin a'Stasiek, Due of Ohrid had been executed for treason.

"Although it seems," Theron continued, "that your welcome was not all you might have hoped." He scanned the crowd behind the due, noting those who moved closer to their lord and those who backed away. Finally, his gaze rested on the broken body lying a little apart. "I came to Ohrid to find the traitor who thought to sell our country out to the Cemandian horde. It appears I've come too late."

There was enough of a question in his last words that Pjerin, as confused as everyone else, opened his mouth to reply. Before he got the chance, Vencel shook off the hands holding him and stomped forward.

"What treason is it to want a better life?" he demanded.

Theron bent his head to meet the young man's angry eyes. "None at all," he said. "But what kind of life can be gained by the betrayal of an innocent man? Not a better one."

Vencel dabbed at his mouth with the back of his hand and shot a glance at Pjerin. "But you killed…" His voice trailed into uncertainty as he realized what he was saying.

"Killed him?" Theron asked gently. He very much doubted the boy was even as old as Onele. An easy age to lead with confusion and anger.

"What about the kigh?" Beneath the king's steady gaze, Vencel fell back on the one thing everyone kept shouting about. "You listen to the kigh!"

"No." Theron shook his head an Annice was surprised to hear an undertone of disappointment in his voice. "I cannot hear the kigh. But I do listen to those who can. Don't you think it's important that we're aware of the world around us?"

"But the kigh are outside the Circle!"

"All things are within the Circle. That is the very Center of what we believe. If all things are not enclosed, then there is no Circle."

"But the Cemandians believe…"

"The Cemandians are afraid."

Vencel stiffened, resenting the implication. I'm not afraid of anything, his posture declared and others around the court mirrored it. "We were promised that the world would come to Ohrid."

"Who promised this?"

The only sound came from the horses as Vencel turned toward the corpse of Lukas a'Tynek.

Theron straightened and his voice filled the court. "I am Theron, King of Shkoder, High Captain of the Broken Islands, Lord over the Mountain Principalities of Sibiu, Ohrid, Adjud, Bicaz, and Somes." Above his head, a breeze spread the royal standard so that the crowned ship sailed over the keep. "Acknowledging the claims of your due, I have come to you to see that the promises made to Ohrid by the crown are kept. I will bring the world to Ohrid if you but let me."

Shaking her head, Annice couldn't help but admire how Theron had taken control through sheer force of personality. He was king. Without doubt. Without question. And by speaking in the local dialect he'd explicitly said, I am king here. Even Vencel was beginning to look impressed.

Tucked in behind her shoulder, Stasya murmured, "Practically bardic."

Annice smiled but concentrated on separating out individual statements from the muttering of the crowd.

"… means something coming from the actual king…"

"… kings can break promises as easily as traders…"

"… here, isn't he?"

"We mean enough to him, that he came here…"

Brows drawn into a dark vee, Pjerin raised his hand and gradually silence returned. Obviously, there were layers upon layers upon layers of understanding involved here but this was not the time to find out who knew what and when. The king no longer believed him forsworn and that would do for now. "Majesty, I regret to inform you that we have not actually dealt with the treason in Ohrid."

Around him, faces paled, as people remembered suddenly that they had agreed to turn this king over to a Cemandian army.

"Lukas a'Tynek…" Pjerin gestured at the body, "… was only a tool for my father's sister, Olina i'Katica."

"And where is your father's sister now?" Theron asked.

A muscle jumped in Pjerin's jaw. "Probably Cemandia. When she discovered I was alive, she ran."

"Let her run." Theron smiled and his voice rang against the stones. "And let the Cemandian army come. The keep of Ohrid holds the pass!"

As the bruised and bleeding people in the court began to cheer and Tadeus had to practically Sing his translation in order to be heard, Annice had to admit she'd never really appreciated her brother's power as king before.

When the cheer died, Theron spoke again. "There is, however, still a treason that must be dealt with." Then he turned his head and looked straight at Annice.

Annice felt her heart stop. How could I have forgotten. She tried to back up, but Stasya blocked the way.

"He's seen you, Nees. You've got to face him."

"But…"

"Nees." Stasya laid a gentle kiss on the top of the other woman's ear. "If you can't trust him, trust me. Go. I'll be right behind you."

Gerek squirmed out of her hands. "Nees, why is everyone staring at you?"

Stasya reached forward, grabbed his shoulder and pushed him toward his nurse. "I'll explain everything later, Gerek."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

He looked mutinous, but he went.

Annice thought she was used to people staring at her. She was a bard. People always stared at bards. But the weight of speculation, concern, astonishment, pity dragged at her, and she wouldn't have made the last few feet had Pjerin not reached out and pulled her to his side.

"Your Majesty," he began, switching to Shkoden.

"Your Grace." Theron cut him off in the same language. "Be quiet." He sighed, and pulled off his helm, resting it in front of him on the saddle. "Did you honestly believe," he asked sadly, running one hand through sweat-flattened curls, "that I would have you put to death for bearing a child?"

Annice blinked. This was not the king who had just gathered the hearts of Ohrid into his hand. This was not the man who had first threatened her with Cemandia's heir, then used his power like a sledge against her. This was the brother she thought existed only in memory. Did she honestly believe that he would have her put to death for bearing a child? And if she didn't, why hadn't she gone to him, told him what she suspected about Pjerin?

Was she so petty as to risk the life of her baby, to risk Shkoder itself just because ten years ago a king, newly crowned, had lashed out in pain. She bit the inside of her lip as, for the first time, she realized that if Theron had rejected her, she had equally rejected him and he'd very likely been as hurt as she had been.

"Answer him, Annice," Stasya whispered.

Did she honestly believe…?

She closed her eyes. "I don't know." How far would he let that mix of pain and pride take him? She couldn't know—not when hers had insisted he remain the villain for ten long years.

When she opened her eyes again, Theron had dismounted and was standing in front of her, only slightly more than an arm's length away. He still looked majestic. He still looked like the brother she remembered. Both Pjerin and Stasya fell back.

"Your captain tells me that the king's word must be perceived as law, but bad laws should be changed." He took a deep breath. "I, Theron, King of Shkoder, High Captain of the Broken Islands, Lord over the Mountain Principalities of Sibiu, Ohrid, Adjud, Bicaz, and Somes do on this day remove all conditions on the bard known as Annice who was my sister and I hope will be again."

"Witnessed." Tadeus declared as he finished the translation. Still in the saddle, he smiled over the king's head at Annice who couldn't seem to find a reaction to Theron's words. "Don't be a gob, Nees. He loves you, and there's never enough of that to go around."

Theron rolled his eyes. "Shut up, Tadeus."

Tears spilling down her cheeks, Annice covered her mouth with both hands but couldn't prevent a ragged giggle from escaping. She rubbed the back of her wrist over her nose and shook her head. "Long trip?" she asked her brother, shooting a glance up at the bard behind him.

Theron opened his arms. "Too long," he said softly. "Come home, Annice."

One step. Two. He met her halfway.

She burst into sobs against his shoulder. "I'm sorry," she murmured for his ears alone. "I'm sorry I humiliated you in front of Father. I'm sorry I was too self-absorbed to recognize a peace offering when you made it. I'm sorry that even for a moment I believed you might actually hurt my baby." She felt him sigh, felt warm moisture seeping through her hair where his cheek lay against her head.

"I'm sorry, too," Theron said softly. "My anger at your betrayal hid the fact that I betrayed you first—it wasn't you I couldn't forgive, it was me. I didn't want to think of myself as the kind of king who could use someone who loved him in such a way. I'm sorry that I allowed my pride to dictate the distance between us for so long."

"I was just so afraid that if I gave you the chance, you'd hurt me again."

Theron remembered how once she had trusted him more than anyone alive. "You have no idea," he told her, throat closing around the words, "how sorry I am for that."

After a moment, he kissed her and pushed her gently away. "We'll have much to speak about later, but right now, we've one unenclosed mess to straighten out."

Annice nodded. It felt as though knots had been untied all through her body. She wiped at her face with her palms. "I understand. You've got an army to get ready for."

"The army's not likely to be the problem now that His Grace is back in control of the keep." Theron said with a smile, changing back to the local dialect and raising his voice enough to be heard by everyone in the court. "But there are a number of explanations, long overdue."

"Begging your pardon, Majesty." Stasya stepped forward. Her voice still sounded as though she'd been storing it in brine and her eyes were half shut against the light, but the gray had begun to leave her skin and she stood unassisted. "Explanations will have to wait. The pass can't be closed. The palisade has been emptied and partially dismantled."

"What!" Pjerin spun around, grabbed a handful of Vencel's tunic and nearly hauled him off his feet. "What do you know about this?"

With the full force of his lord's temper not a hand-breadth from his face, Vencel blanched and stammered defensively, "The palisade needed repairs! A crosspiece at the bottom needed to be replaced. We took it out, but—I mean—it wasn't finished because there's been field work to do, and, well, other things kept coming up…"

"Other things?" Pjerin's tone dripped disbelief.

Vencel stiffened. "Yes, Your Grace, other things."

"And who kept you busy with these other things?"

"It's still First Quarter, Your Grace," someone called from the crowd. "There's always things that need doing."

"It was First Quarter when you emptied it," Pjerin growled, cutting off the murmur of agreement.

"But Lukas said," someone else began, then stopped, realizing that anything Lukas said would not now help their case.

"Said what? That there was no need to hurry?" At Vencel's nod, Pjerin overcame the urge to shake the boy until his teeth rattled and, jaw set, released him with only one, near involuntary, jerk. He was beginning to regret that Lukas had died so easily although he took some small comfort in knowing that Olina had undoubtedly given the actual orders. "Lukas was in no hurry because he needed the pass open for a Cemandian army. Something—" his angry gaze raked the crowd, "—that I'm sure crossed a number of minds considering what's been going on around here. Whatever else you may be, I know you're not stupid." Unable to raise his left arm, he clutched at the ornate hilt of the Ducal sword and snarled, "Anyone who'd rather be with the Cemandians, can leave now."

No one moved.

"You?"

Vencel looked mulish, but he shook his head.

"Good. Where's the crosspiece you took out?"

No one spoke.

"Well?"

Urmi pushed forward, her face streaked with drying blood. "It, uh, was cut up for the kitchen fires, your Grace." She swallowed and squared her shoulders. "The palisade hasn't been repaired for some time, Your Grace. It was an easy lie to believe and things were, well, unsettled while you were, uh, dead."

Pjerin could feel them waiting for his response, could feel his bond with his people teetering in the balance. Glancing at Annice and Theron, he thought of how much holding onto the past had denied them. What was done, was done. He snorted and some of the stiffness went out of his posture. "Well, it was unsettling being dead." As an echo of his easing rippled through the crowd, he turned to the king who'd been standing quietly watching Ohrid pull itself back together. "We have a problem," he said shortly. "We won't have time to repair and refill the palisade. We'll have to rely on a wooden barricade, well soaked to keep it from burning."

The king nodded. "How long will that take to build?"

"We'll need some big timber to anchor it."

"Your Grace?" Vencel twitched his tunic straight but did not allow anxious hands to pull him back into the crowd. He lifted his chin defiantly. "We could use the logs in the palisade."

At Theron's raised brow, Pjerin nodded. "We'd have to go at least a day's travel to find trees that size." Turning to Vencel, he smiled approvingly. "Good idea."

The due's praise was as overwhelming as his temper. Vencel colored and looked away, ears red.

"Before we get to work, I do have one explanation I need to make." Stepping away from Pjerin, Theron let his gaze sweep over the guard and the four nobles who had accompanied him, unaware that they probably rode to war. Obviously, they now knew differently and deserved to be told the whole. No, not the whole, he decided. Cemandia would be at the sea before I started to untangle it.

He spoke Shkoden this time and finished the severely edited chain of events leading up to this moment with,

"… now we must stand side by side with the people of Ohrid to defend our land from Cemandian invasion!"

There's something about being a king, Annice decided as the guards, caught up in the appeal, cheered, that lends a certain grandeur even to overblown rhetoric. From anyone else, that ending would've been over the edge. Even as Tadeus repeated it, it had lost a little of its majesty.

She glanced up at Pjerin, trying to gauge his reaction. If they hadn't run, then Olina would never have believed him dead, and they wouldn't have been able to regain the keep, and they wouldn't all be preparing to stand off a Cemandian invasion. If only Olina hadn't emptied out that palisade…

The two younger nobles—as Theron had known they would—looked thrilled at a chance to prove themselves against such overwhelming odds. One hated the Cemandians for personal reasons and had spent the entire trip wishing for much this situation. The fourth merely smiled.

"You're not surprised, Lady Jura."

The scarred and grizzled veteran of the Broken Islands campaign inclined her head. "Sire, I am many things, but I am not a diplomat, nor a courtier, nor a friend who might keep you company on the trip. Now I understand why I was chosen. How long have we to prepare?"

Even the horses seemed to hold their breath waiting for the answer.

Theron spread his hands. "Two days, maybe three. No more."

"Rider in the pass!"

All heads turned toward the high watchtower. Some things needed no translation.

"Maybe less," the king amended dryly.

"Surrender?" Theron folded his hands over the saddlehorn and looked calmly out at the Cemandian herald. Although the herald had addressed him in fluent Shkoden, he continued to speak the local dialect. "I don't think so."

The herald shot an anxious glance at Tadeus who was Singing softly so that all those gathered on the battlements above could hear the conversation. A muscle twitched along the side of his face, but holding both lance and reins he had no way to make the sign against the kigh. "Majesty, Prince Rajmund wishes me to point out that you are vastly outnumbered and unable to close the pass. You may be able to hold the keep, but you cannot keep us out of Ohrid. It will only be a matter of time."

"Then it will be that matter of time."

"Majesty, there will be many deaths for no reason…"

"There may be many deaths, but they will all be for a reason. To keep this land free of Cemandian rule."

"My prince says that he believes the people of Ohrid have no wish to die for such a reason."

"Your prince is wrong." Pjerin's voice barely needed bardic assistance to fill the pass. "You can tell him I said so. And you can tell my aunt that if she had a heart, I'd cut it out and feed it to her."

"I will tell them both, Your Grace." The herald turned his attention back to the king. "Majesty, my prince suggests that it is not yet too late for a joining between himself and your heir to unite these kingdoms in peace."

"Tell your prince that I do not wish these kingdoms to be united and I, and my heir, will fight to our last breath to prevent it." Theron's voice changed slightly. "And herald, tell your prince that it is not too late for him to take his army home before he spills the blood of Cemandia to no avail."

The herald, who recognized a dismissal when he heard one, bowed, wheeled his horse, and galloped back over the border, flesh crawling with the certain knowledge that his every move was watched by the kigh.

"I should be on the barricades!" Pjerin tossed his hair back off his face. "This can wait."

"No, it can't, Your Grace." Elica put her hand on his good shoulder and pushed him back into the chair. "Unless you want to lose the use of that arm, it has to be healed. Now. You haven't exactly taken care of it."

"I haven't exactly been in a position to," Pjerin growled.

"Let her work," Theron said quietly coming into the room. "We'll need you whole come morning. But if you have a moment, Healer, I was wondering about Annice."

"Well, she's exhausted and perhaps a little thinner than I'd like, but, all things being enclosed, I don't think there's anything to worry about. The blood…"

"Blood?" both men exclaimed.

"The blood," Elica repeated, once again pushing Pjerin back into the chair, "is perfectly normal for this time in her pregnancy given that it's been only pink or brown spotting. I wouldn't have even mentioned it had I realized she hadn't told you."

"What else hasn't she told me?" Pjerin wondered, shifting irritably. "She said she was fine."

"She is fine. After a little sleep, she'll be in much better shape than you are if I don't take care of that wound. In fact," Elica sighed, "she'll be in better shape than I am after half a Quarter in the saddle." The rest of the king's party had arrived in the late afternoon to find the keep on a war footing and explanations more confusing than enlightening. Elica had taken one look at Annice and ordered her to bed; had taken a second look at Stasya and ordered her to follow. During the examinations, she'd heard the complete story.

Annice's healing of Gerek—if that's what had actually happened—would have to be investigated by the Healers' Hall. Before she left, she'd take a look at the boy herself. At the moment, with a war imminent and no other healers closer than Marienka, Elica was willing to acknowledge that the Circle held many wondrous things and leave it lie.

"Stasya," she continued, anticipating the king's next question, "may need healing to help her body overcome the effects of that pit. I'll know in the morning. His Grace," she added pointedly, "needs healing now because when I'm finished, he's going to want to sleep."

"When you're finished," Pjerin declared, "I'm going back to the barricades."

The healer rolled her eyes. "Was there anything else, Majesty?"

"No, nothing else." Theron nodded at the due and Elica and left the room. When a healer used that tone of voice, even kings gave way.

Elica turned to Pjerin and studied the angry red lines radiating out from the torn scar tissue. "This is going to hurt," she began.

Pjerin's mouth twisted up into what might have been a weary smile. "I've been healed before. Let's get this over with."

"You're not going back to the barricades."

The smile showed more teeth. "You're not going to be able to stop me."

Some time later, Elica picked up the lamp and gently patted the hand of the sleeping due. "I'll see you in. the morning, Your Grace," she told him and quietly left the room.

"What can you see?"

Heart pounding, Pjerin jumped and spun around. "Annice! Are you supposed to be up here?"

"What do you mean?" She smiled at the sentry, then leaned against the battlements of the high watchtower and stared out into the pass. "Stasya and Tadeus want to see how far away I have to be in order for them to Sing. This is as far away as I can get and still be in the keep. If it comes to it," she added distastefully, "I may have to lock myself away in an interior room for the duration. Someplace with a heavy door and no windows."

"I meant, should you be up here in your condition?"

She wasn't going to tell him that she'd had to rest four times on the way up the narrow stairs or that she'd thought more than once she wasn't going to make it. "We walked across the country with me in this condition. How's your arm?"

"Better." He'd been furious to discover he'd fallen asleep and more furious still to have His Majesty tell him not to use it until he had to.

Annice smiled, correctly interpreting the undertones, then suddenly sobered. "I don't think you should have just let Nikulas go free. I mean, he tried to kill you."

"His brother was dead and he believed I was responsible. It was a perfectly natural response."

She couldn't believe him sometimes. "Of course it was. And suppose he tries it again?"

"He won't."

"Pjerin…"

"I know my people, Annice. One way or another, he'll be convinced."

"And Sarline?"

"Rozyte's not even speaking to her. She has enough personal problems right now without me adding to them."

Annice sighed. "Pjerin, it's all very well to be a compassionate lord, but don't you think…"

"I think we're about to have a war," he interrupted, his expression grim. "And I think I've had enough of death already."

Even she couldn't argue with that, so she carefully swung her bulk around and gestured toward Cemandia. "I don't see anything."

Pjerin turned to follow her hand. "Sun's been up on the other side of the mountains for a while. They're moving, count on it. We should be able to see them any… there!"

The sentry shook her head. "Just the sun flashing on a bit of shiny rock, Your Grace. Happens every morning there's enough light. We won't spot them until they're actually in the pass. Plenty of time to ready bows."

The battlements overlooking the pass would bristle with archers, many using crossbows and quarrels supplied from Albek's packs.

"Nice of him to leave them," Theron had said. "Gives the whole situation a certain circular nature I'd like to consider a good omen."

Pjerin squinted into the east a while longer, then twisted to face Annice. "You're very quiet," he said. Noting her confused expression and the way she was staring down at her. legs, he asked, "Anything wrong?"

"I'm having a baby."

"I know that."

"You don't understand." She clutched his arm, conscious only of warm fluid dribbling down the inside of her thighs. "I'm having a baby now."

"Now?"

"Your Grace! There! Did you see it?"

"Now?"

She shook him. "Yes, now."

"But you're not due until Second Quarter! That's…"

He tried to count, but numbers failed him. "… days away."

"You think I don't know that?"

"Riders in the pass!"

"Annice, this isn't a good time."

"What are you talking about!"

"We're about to be attacked by the Cemandian army!"

"Fine!" She glared up at him. "You can tell them to wait!"